Crumbeling Reality
by FionaTailynn
Summary: Sequel to Not Just a Watch /story/story preview.php?storyid 8322889 A year after John finds out who his flat mate really is, Sherlock starts to get behind the perception filter and finds out the bitter, shocking truth about his existence.


For a second, both John and Sherlock started rethinking their lives. How could it have come this far? Just two months ago, they had been solving case after case together. Nothing seemed to be going wrong, and here John was standing in some old basement, his best friend pointing a gun at him with such emptiness in his eyes.

Sherlock held the gun even more tightly than before, staring at the man he used to trust with a blank expression. He hated this man for what he'd done, and was going to end him.

_Two Months earlier_

_Part I: Self-doubt_

"Didn't you used to do that too?" Seven simple words; and their entire world was torn down.

Sherlock and John were both silently sitting in the cab on their way to St. Bart's when suddenly the car came to a sudden stop. A van filled with drunken teenagers crossed the red light and almost caused a collision.

Sherlock let out a small sigh. How much more delay was he going to get? He hadn't had any cases in the last couple of days so he was very anxious to get to the hospital as fast as possible. John couldn't believe how impatient Sherlock was being so he let those words slip out. He knew very well he wasn't supposed to ask thing like that but it seemed harmless at the moment.

Sherlock wanted to open his mouth and say 'Of course not' as if it were the most obvious thing in the world but something stopped him: Was that true or not? He looked outside the window, wondering whether he'd done that or not. But the thought was quickly pushed aside when the cab arrived.

The case had been simple; it was clear from the start who had done it. John went to bed shortly after they got home, but Sherlock made himself a cup of tea and sat down on the couch, putting his hands into his usual praying position. He was still concentrated on that question John had asked him. Why couldn't he clearly answer that? What was going on? He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes.

The more he thought of it the more things started to make less sense. He found that after a period of five years in his past, his memories weren't detailed or precise like the other one's, which to some extent made sense, but there seemed to be a specific date where everything before was a blur, and everything afterwards was clear. He took it upon himself to find out what had happened that day.

He asked friends and family about that specific date, who were first baffled as to why he needed to know so desperately. He'd get them to talk with his usual persuasive way. But every time they'd check their journals, blogs etc. it would always turn out to be an ordinary day in his life. That didn't make any sense. After a week of trying to find anything out and miserably failing to he let himself fall back onto the couch and went back into the same position he had that night he came home. But now more questions came up. He couldn't even remember what people looked like more than five years ago. That wasn't something he'd delete right?

Not everyone would describe Sherlock in the same way; some may say he's brilliant, others that he's a sociopath, others would say he's annoying. But pretty much no one would describe him as self-doubtful. And yet, that's was what he was experiencing right at the moment.

_1 Month later_

_Part II: Disbelief_

John had realized a difference in Sherlock behavior over the last couple of weeks. Every one of his actions seemed to be made with more caution and he didn't speak much. He seemed deep in thought most of the time, absent.

They were both sitting in the living room one evening. John was reading the newspaper, and Sherlock was just sitting there, staring into space.

"John?" Sherlock finally said.

"Yes?" John said looking up from the paper.

"Am... Am I real?" he said with an unsure tone.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He'd always thought sooner or later something would go wrong, but this? Sherlock was questioning his existence! He was asking someone _else_ about it and not himself. Even the perception filter couldn't fool Sherlock for ever. How long had this been nagging on him? Did John miss something out? The Doctor had told him he'd know what to do, but he had absolutely no idea!

He put the newspaper down and took a deep breath.

"Of... Of course your real, Sherlock."

The odd tone in John's voice set some alarms off in Sherlock. Was he lying to him? Lying to him about his own existence? Although, when he thought about it, anyone would react that way at such a strange question.

The look Sherlock was giving John was the worst. It wasn't reprehending or anything, it was just begging for an explanation. But Sherlock couldn't know. That would be too dangerous.

"Why would you even ask that?"

"I can't remember anything before the 16th April 2007... Well at least nothing _real._"

No, no, no. He had to tell him! He couldn't leave him like this.

In retrospect John still couldn't decide whether that was the right choice or not.

John closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He glanced up at his friend, took his hand and said, "You aren't exactly real. But you are to me."

"What do you mean?"

John began explaining what had happened a year before, how he'd come home one night and found Sherlock acting peculiar, his encounter with the Doctor, the second heart beat, who the Master was and how they changed him back.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in disbelief. This couldn't be true, it just couldn't. He got up and went to his room, angry that John would invent such a thing, when he was asking him a serious question, however odd it seemed, and threw himself on his bed.

Now that he thought of it, he didn't remember anything that had happened that night he got shot. And there was a slight memory of a watch, some watch that he kept forgetting about. His eyes ripped open; John had mentioned a watch! So this was true. He lay in his bed for hours, wondering what to do.

John regretted having told Sherlock the moment he walked away. But it been quite clear from the start that he'd have to explain sooner or later. The next morning Sherlock didn't show up for breakfast. John thought he just wanted time for himself, trying to set things straight, but as it quickly became evening and the door to Sherlock's room remained untouched John decided to go inside and talk to him. The room was empty. There was a note on the bed:

Dear John,

I need some time to figure things out.

I still can't quite grasp the truth.

You won't see for some time.

Please don't come looking for me, and don't tell anyone I left.

SH

None of this struck John as very alarming. It made sense that he'd want to leave for some time, and be on his own. But one thing worried him a lot. Sherlock had crossed through his initials. As if he'd signed and then realized that that wasn't his name. He walked over to the open window that Sherlock had used to escape, looked up at the sky and whispered: "Please help me, Doctor."

_My life is a lie. My thoughts shouldn't exist. These words shouldn't be allowed to bounce around my head, because I don't have a head. I'm not a consulting detective, a person or even a being. I'm just an invention someone used to escape his own people. I'm nothing._

Sherlock was freezing in the old abandoned hut, which was somewhere hidden away in some forrest, several hundred miles away from London. It didn't have any kind of insulation and the icy wind blew right through it. But he didn't button his coat up because he didn't see any point in doing that. He had some time to think here, and it felt good to be alone. Because that's what his nature was; It was his nature to be where no one could find him, like a ghost or a dream.

_Two weeks later_

_Part III: Distrust_

Two weeks had passed and there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. John was beginning to worry that something happened to him and he kept catching himself on the lookout for a blue police box. He needed the Doctor; only he could help Sherlock get better. John felt sorry for his friend. He was probably somewhere scared to death by everything. And Sherlock wasn't used to being afraid.

_Why? Why didn't he tell me? How could he go about life, acting as if he didn't know, acting as if I existed? All I am is his imaginary friend, but I didn't even get the right to know that._

As the days passed Sherlock became less sad, and confused by his state, and started getting angry;

How could John do such a thing? He could've told him the moment he found out, but no. He let him find out on his own, in a much worse way. He trusted John, he trusted him with his life (even if that meant nothing now), and he misused his trust in such a way? Slowly but surely, he started growing less fond of John, their relationship only hanging by a very thin thread.

And then he started growing less fond of anyone, who'd gotten close to him, just because of the fact that they'd let him do that. He realized that everything he believed to be right was actually wrong, because he didn't have a will, at least not anymore. The Master did though, and now his only purpose left was to make the Master's will happen.

_Two weeks later_

Almost a month had passed and there was still nothing from Sherlock. John started becoming desperate and reported him missing, but no one had seen him. Now, he thought, was the time to start panicking. He started running around the streets of London screaming out his name as if he would hear him. But he could be anywhere on earth. And that's when John realized he should've never let Sherlock leave.

_3 Days later_

Manipulation was one of Jim Moriarty's many talents. But this, this was far too easy. It hadn't been hard to track Sherlock down. Once Moriarty heard of the missing reports he took it upon himself to find his consulting detective. The man had clearly gone insane somehow, but for some reason, he blamed his soldier boy, making this an even more easily won battle.

He stood in front of a skinny figure rolled up on the ground in the basement of some abandoned building. Moriarty smiled down at him and Sherlock curved himself a bit and gave him a flash of a glimpse. He had dark circles under his eyes and was even paler than usual.

"So what do you say?" He said while holding out his arm.

Sherlock stared up at him with a glazed look but then grabbed hold of his hand and pulled himself up.

His hair was messed up, his nails were dirty and he had no expression on his face. He glanced down to his once arch nemesis with whom he'd just formed an alliance, and it was against John, his once best friend but that was over. Now all he could think of at that name was anger, and that was all that he was going to think about at the sound of it. But it wouldn't be for a very long time either. He had rationalized that only if John had done this to him (even if that made no sense at all) there would be a good reason not to tell which made him even more angry and he realized he couldn't trust anyone.

The two possibilities on what would happen if Sherlock was telling the truth and did kill John were both situations that would mean Moriarty's final victory. Either this was temporary, and Sherlock would go crazy after realizing what he'd done, or he'd be unchangeable, and he'd have gained a perfect ally.

"Now, tell him where you are." He said throwing a phone to Sherlock.

_Part IV: Hate_

John finally heard a bleeping of his phone and was relieved to see that Sherlock had contacted him:

Come here immediately. –SH

There was a picture sent showing a small hut on some gravel road. He didn't know where it was but he could see a small street sign in the background and with the help of Google street view he quickly found the place. It was just outside a small town west of Leeds. John didn't wait for a second longer and took the next train headed there.

Sherlock had hesitated a little at his initials again, wondering if he should write them. But this wasn't his phone and John wouldn't come if he didn't know that it was him. He pursed his lips and kept quiet. He didn't know whether he was doing the right thing or not anymore, it didn't feel right, but nothing did anymore anyways.

After a long day of travelling, John finally found the small house in the woods. He quickly ran out the car he rented and opened the door. It was quite small; the whole thing was about the size of their kitchen. Nobody was here, but suddenly he heard some noise coming from beneath. John took his flash light out to see where he could find the way to the basement. There was a staircase. Bingo.

As he carefully walked down the stairs he recognized to figures standing in front of him, but before he had the time to lift up his flashlight to see who was there one of them pushed a light switch and a single light bulb in the center of the room lit up. Moriarty and Sherlock were standing in front of him, and to make matters worse, Sherlock was aiming a gun at him.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"Shut up." Sherlock said bitterly.

"What happened?"

"What happened" Moriarty spoke with a grin on his face, "Your friend just told me he wants to kill you single handedly"

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief, shaking his head at it. "No, no. Oh please no." he mouthed looking up at his friend.

The grip around his gun tightened as he looked into John's eyes. This was wrong. He was killing the person he hated the most, who was initially the person he cared for the most for the person who initially hated _him_ the most. The less sense it made, the more he would think: _Oh what does it matter? You don't exist, remember? Just do what the person whose body this is would do. That way you at least won't have been a waste._

"I think I'll leave you two alone." Moriarty said, walking up the stairs. Sherlock didn't move, his gaze still fixed on John, as well as the gun. Sherlock would soon pull the trigger, unleashing his hate with the world, and most of all his hate with John.

As John re-thought the past two months it seemed to make sense and he deserved it. He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet.

_Part V: Regret_

But instead he heard a familiar wheezing sound and wind blow in his face. No, it couldn't be. John opened his eyes a bit as the TARDIS appeared in the dark basement and the familiar man with the bowtie stepped out. He looked around, and somehow he seemed to magically understand exactly what was going on.

John let out a sigh of relief and the Doctor walked over to Sherlock. He didn't get in the way of the gun or take it from him. He just went up right next to him and softly said:

"This isn't you, Sherlock. He's your best friend."

Sherlock's hand began to shake and he frowned.

"There is no Sherlock."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because I don't exist."

"Really? You're standing here, you're breathing, you're talking to me; how is that not existing?"

John could see an actual tear run down Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry." He said walking up closer to his friend. John regretted so much. But he didn't know what to regret; He didn't know if it was wrong of him to want to give him a life, or that it was wrong to not have told him, or that it was wrong of him to let his friend run away and grow apart from him. He simply didn't know.

What had happened? How did he let it come this far? Sherlock was actually standing in some basement somewhere outside Leeds, and had told his archenemy he wanted to kill his best friend. And the moment he asked himself that was the moment he realized he didn't want to lead someone else's life anymore, and that's when he realized he was real, because he _wanted _something. And it was something different. For the first time ever (and he hoped it was the last) he crumpled to the ground and burst into tears.

John was stunned for a moment by the turn of events but then quickly ran over and kneeled down next to him.

"It's okay, it's okay. You'll be fine."

Regret was the best word to describe Sherlock right now (although a "mess" would've probably also been accurate) He shouldn't have done that. John may have made a mistake but it was all to protect him. And then he went on and stabbed him in the back. John took him in his arms and let him sob all his feelings out. "I'm sorry, John. I really am."

"It's okay." He said while patting Sherlock's arm.

_1 Day later_

_Part VI: Choices_

The Doctor laid the fob watch he'd kept on the table of the hut. Sherlock stared down at it, instantly hearing voices, demanding him to open it. The Doctor and John exchanged looks.

"We're giving you a choice," John started "You can go on with your life now, or you can open the watch if you don't want it anymore." He couldn't believe he was actually suggesting suicide to his best friend, but he didn't want to see him suffer. So this would maybe be his last option; Sherlock's only way out of his completely screwed up life. And this time Sherlock could choose.

Sherlock took the watch in his hands suddenly remembering that he had had this watch for quite some time. He could open it and all his troubles would be over, he'd just be a long lost memory somewhere in someone else's head. But he didn't want that.

Because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that he'd enjoyed those five years that he had lived. Yes, it would be hard to keep on living as before, knowing that he didn't have a past, that he in fact had no connection to most of the people he thought he knew. But there was at least one person, who he'd known for less time and cared for him: John.

Sherlock took the watch all the way up to his face, as though he wanted to give it one last look before he flung it behind him not looking back. The three of them smiled at each other.

_3 Month later_

Everything seemed to be fine again, but then again, John had always thought it was hard to get into Sherlock's head. He went back to normal, but seemedmore preserved and quiet. The Doctor had run off again, saying something about Daleks on Apalapucia. He'd taken the watch along, and both Sherlock and John thought that was better that way.

In the beginning Sherlock had an odd habit to stop talking, sit down and remain silent for hours. John always wondered what he'd be thinking about in that time but never asked. It eventually stopped happening. Sherlock was good again, and that's what counted.

Sherlock would usually not even think in that time. It would be like the emptiness of the life he never led taking over. He hated it when that happened, he would always try to fight it happening but it always took too long to snap out of it. But slowly he got the hang of it and didn't let it happen anymore, because this was his life now, and he wouldn't let anything take that away from him. He'd go insane again, and have to re-live the worst two months of his life. That couldn't happen, he wouldn't allow it. Every time he was feeling like he was going to fall in that trance again he would say to himself:

_You do have a life, and you certainly don't want to spend it this way. So get up right away and live!_


End file.
